


she took me tanzen (all sshhee wants to do is tanzen)

by JemDoe



Category: Homestuck, Tokio Hotel
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Human/Troll Relationship, Inspired by Music, POV Second Person, Quadrant Vacillation, Troll Culture, Troll Romance, Trolls, Trolls on Earth, dont. dont fucking ask
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-10-16 06:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JemDoe/pseuds/JemDoe
Summary: bill kaulitz meets limeblood refugee sshhee ellysa





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Your name is SSHHEE ELLYSA. You are NINE SWEEPS OLD, and you interests consist of MUSIC, FOOD, and RUNNING AWAY FROM HER IMPERIAL CONDESCENSION'S FORCES. You're a LIMEBLOOD, who survived by a stroke of PURE LUCK. You've been on the run for the past THREE SWEEPS, and you just LANDED ON EARTH. Your trolltag is - or was, you suppose - songtressGourmet, and you ssppeeaakk aass iiff yyoouu wweerree ccrryyiinngg. Some may call it crytyping, but you ignore them. What will you do?  
> >LAND ON EARTH

Your name is Bill Kaulitz and boy, does Sshhee take you tanzen. Sshhee’s an alien of some sort, gray and with orange-ish horns that spiral into the sky,  borne between the mass of black hair, sclera yellow like her nails and eyes lime green as her blood.

She says she’s an alien refugee, from some distant, warring planet called Alternia, with a terrible eternal empress. You can’t exactly refute her allegations, considering her spaceship crashed outside your garden, and it looked as alien as the weird green slime she came out of felt.

Sshhee’s not half bad, now that you think about it; she has an ear for music, and her odd sing-song helps you think. You’re just lucky Tom had taken a vacation or another, and as such, you don’t have to explain what Sshhee is. It was already hard enough for you to understand, but Sshhee helps you understand, even if sometimes she changes her tongue to clicks and clacks instead of english. Who’d have thought that aliens spoke english? Not you, certainly.

Speaking of Sshhee, she’s bothering you again. You just had an idea for a song - preemptively titled _Something New,_ inspired vaguely by the moment you met her, when her feet were still too weak to take her weight by itself -, and she’s not helping.

“Bill,”, she calls, voice as if she had cried, long vowels and soft sounds - for some reason, as you found out when she tried to write you something, it transferred to it, as if she could only speak in the way she wrote -, and you turned your head to meet her lime eyes. “I’m hungry.”

“There’s food in the pantry,”, you replied, but Sshhee had already forgotten about it, peering into your writing. She hums a melody, calm and soothing as always.

Sshhee Ellysa, as she told you, was a refugee. Her blood, she told you as she bled lime through a wound, was from a caste considered too powerful by those above her with purple blood, and as such, hunted to extinction. She was somehow saved by a cult of some sort, centered around a mystical, legend-like figure whose story reminded you of Jesus. it was probably a coincidence that there was a troll Jesus, and you avoided thinking too much about it, because otherwise it’d not make sense. The spaceship searched through the universe for a safe haven, and somehow, its algorithm thought your garden was safe. You didn’t discuss with alien algorithms, especially because you didn’t understand them, their letters and numbers… Well, alien.

“What’s this?”, she asks. You shrug.

“Just a song,”, you reply, and she picks it up, starting to sing it. You had thought it’d be a banging electronic song, but Sshhee sings with a crying softness you can’t get used to, vowels stretched thin and through, almost flying. It makes sense, in the same way it makes sense your garden is a safe place.

When she gives it back, you know its tempo will have to be corrected, and Sshhee floats away, looking for the next thing to be marveled about. It’ll end up being the fridge, as you well know by this point. In a weird way, you sort of like her, as much as one can love an alien who seems to have her own, weird concept about romance.

(the explanation about “quadrants” had been… Surprising. Her soft, cotton candy-like explanation for a _moirail_ had inspired another song, at least.)

Days later, you’re singing her a new song - _What if,_ provisory title -, and she is going through your pantry, looking for something to eat ( _being soaked in sopor slime for sweeps and sweeps makes one hungry,_ she told you, when she first did it, and the effects of it seemed a lot like weed. You confirmed it when you two hit it in her spaceship, Sshhee high off it, you smoking a joint. She refused to accept it, but you ended up just getting really emotional and telling her she was the reason for this song you were writing - _As young as we are_ being it’s tentative title - and Sshhee just smiled, way too high, and it was then emotion took the best of you, you told her she was the only one, but Sshhee never answered. You never knew if she remembered it, the following day, but you did.), when Sshhee started screaming, throwing a box of Betty Crocker in the ground. You didn’t remember buying these. Maybe it was Tom, before he went away to… Wherever he had gone. He had planned a roadtrip, hadn’t he?

“What’s wrong?”, you asked, and she seemed to shake, big lime-colored tears in her eyes. The box of cake mix, for some reason, seemed to scare her, to make her shoot out to her feet and run for the place her ship was. You were able to grab Sshhee by the arm. “Hey, Sshhee, what’s wrong? It’s just cake.”

“It’s not that!,”, Sshhee says, crying, and the normal crying voice got stronger, as if it was a special promotion - twice the crying voice for the price of one. Sshhee pointed to the brand, a simple enough red spoon. “See that? It’s her symbol, she’s looking for me!”

“Who?”, you asked, and she _sobbed._ Shit, it wasn’t that simple. “There’s no fight I wouldn’t fight for you, so just tell me who it is.”

“Her Imperial Condescension, of course! She’s the one who ordered my caste extinct, and if she’s here, it won’t be long, and I don’t want her to hurt you.”, she speaks in one long breath, and Sshhee looks at you through eyes filled with tears. You can’t help but wonder what she sees. “Please. Please let me go. For me. For you.”

You let her go, but reluctantly. She didn’t have to leave, but it was what Sshhee wanted.

“Take something of mine, at least. For the trip,”, you begged - and you did not enjoy begging, but if she refused to stay, afraid of some empress who probably was light-years away -, but she nodded, quiet. You were not used to her silence.

“Pick it. I’ll… I’ll be getting ready myself.”, Sshhee said, and left; you, in your turn, didn’t have to think too much, going to your room, picking up the shitty recorder you used to put in song fragments. You didn’t look through the window, but the light her ship produced, soft and lime as her tears, illuminated your room.

You went to where she was, the weird lettering of her ship greeting you once more, but this time final. You knocked, and Sshhee was already half-submerged in sopor slime, messing with the controls. Tears sprung to your eyes, but you did your best to ignore them.

“Hey,”, you called, and her eyes rose. You waved the recorder. “Where do I put this?”

“There’s a small slit for music players, right around…”, her eyes traveled through her ship, and she waved to what seemed like an onboard computer. “There.”

You obeyed, taking out the tape and inserting it. Somehow, it worked, and your voice echoed back to you. She seemed resigned to her fate, working through her computer, and you looked around. The same letters that were outside mocked you.

“What’s the name of this ship?”, you asked, and her eyes rose. A mechanical voice started speaking, and you assumed it was some sort of countdown, considering Sshhee waved you back.

“It’s the _Dream Machine,_ because they thought it would be a dream if I was alive and well.”, she said, simply. Noticing your tears, she offered a half-smile "Bill, don't cry. The night is way too beautiful to be crying."

Dream Machine, huh. That sounded… Oddly poetic.

"I will be with you,", she says, voice weeping openly, the sobs not just her speak. You nod. "Take care. I wills ee you again, one day, back home, and then I will hear your music."

Sshhee was lying, and both of you knew as much. You cracked a smile, going to the safety of your doorstep, looking through the small window of her ship, and as the door closed, Sshhee offered you a sad smile, before laying down and getting out of your view. She would sleep now, sleep until safe haven was found once more by her computer. 

The spaceship started flying, leaving heat behind and a trail of white smoke. A song started pouring out of your lips, but just fragments.

“You left to the stars… My world fell apart,”, you started, quiet, voice as crying as hers, low and melodious. “Now that you live in the dark…”

It sounded good enough. You went inside, shaking your head. You shouldn’t have told her Sshhee was the only one - nor that she was the reason for a song. It would only hurt more, when she awoke, and noticed you’d be dead and gone for centuries past, in a planet far away from her, your voice unreachable in the worst possible manner.

You shouldn’t have told her Sshhee was the only one - nor that she was the reason for a song. It would only hurt more, when she awoke, and noticed you’d be dead and gone for centuries past, in a planet far away from her, your voice unreachable in the worst possible manner.

However, Sshhee would never know this, and you had songs to write and songs to edit. If she couldn't be with you, then maybe the songs could be with her.


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Sshhee Ellysa, and you’re almost sure - almost; space-time travel is a tricky, finicky thing - everyone you ever knew is dead. It saddens you quite a bit; there were some nice people you’ve met.

Getting out of your recuperacoon, you clean yourself from the slime, looking outside; it seems like you’ve landed in an inhabited planet, for once. It’s a dusty, red planet, from what you can see, and perhaps, only perhaps, Her Imperial Condescension wouldn’t be interested in it. After all, what use had a seadweller to a dry planet? None.

You clean yourself off the slime, remembering there was a tape for you. The boy you met once - sleep stops your sponge from working properly, making you frustrated in your quest to remember his name. Will? -, who had fed you and gave you shelter, had gifted this to you, before you parted.

You walked to your husktop, turning it on - and it took what seemed ages to load; time took its toll in everything -, cleaning yourself and putting fresh clothes after a good dive in your abluption trap while keeping an eye on it.

Bill was his name, wasn’t it? And he was a musician. Bill Kaulitz. Was that correct? Was he even alive anymore? How long had you spent asleep? As soon as possible, you typed his name in the browser he had installed you, when yours - Yaldabaoth, a good, quick browser your husktop had come installed with - didn’t work on Bill’s little blue planet.

The search yielded a myriad of results, and you scrolled quickly through them, taking note it had been barely a sweep and a half since you left his planet. He was probably still alive, then.

More importantly, a link called to your attention - something with your ship name on it. Curious. You clicked on the red icon, and music seemed to burst forth from your husktop’s speakers. You recognized this voice, for it was Bill’s. Oddly enough, if you paid enough attention to the song, it seemed… Oddly familiar.

Could it be…? No. No, there was no way. Why would the boy you had feelings for - the vacillation between red and pale counted, didn’t it? - make an album named after your ship, with one song named after you? Could it have been reciprocated?

No. No, it couldn’t have been. The song named after you starts playing, and you close your husktop; you don’t need this. Not now. You eye the space where he left behind the tape, wondering what it could contain, and press play, quiet.

Bill’s voice starts singing, quiet and raspy and with none of the fanciness his music contained, when coming out of your husktop. His parting gift had been his music, and in his hopes to reach you in your sleep, he had sang to the world.

Tears left your eyes, tinged with the color of your blood, and you sang along in a quiet, weepy tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to the Boys, i hope you two arent reading this,

**Author's Note:**

> alternative titles include "what do u mean dream machine wasnt written for my fantroll", "yule you just made god cry" and "bill kaulitz, sweetie, I'm SO sorry, I'm so sorry that a ugly ass bitch like this would even write that, oh my god!"  
> this is like. HEAVILY inspired by the Soft Bill™ fanfiction used to depict in 2009 and im honestly so sorry  
> happy 4/13 anyway,


End file.
